“What’s it about?”
“Oh, it’s dull, heavy stuff. I can’t do what Millie does, you see. It’s not a novel.”
We parted at the door of the publisher who had been ready to oblige Mrs Clinton, and would, I thought, soon regret his complaisance; and I went on to my office, dismissing the Prince Consort and his “little thing” from my mind.
I went to the Clintons’ about three months’ later, in order to bid them farewell before starting for a holiday on the Continent. They were, for a wonder, without other visitors, and when we had talked over Mrs Clinton’s last production, she stretched out her hand and pointed to the table.
“And there,” she said, with a little laugh, “is Thompson’s” (the Prince Consort’s Christian name is Thompson) “magnum opus. Vincents’ have just sent him his advance copies.”
The Prince Consort laughed nervously as I rose and walked to the table.
“Never mind, papa,” I heard Muriel say encouragingly. “You know Mr George Vincent says it’s very good.”
“Oh, he thought that would please your mother,” protested the Prince Consort.
I examined the two large thick volumes that lay on the table. I glanced at the title page: and I felt sorry for the poor Prince Consort. It must have been a terrible “grind” to write such a book—almost as bad as reading it. But I said something civil about the importance and interest of the subject.
“If you really don’t mind looking at it,” said the Prince Consort, “I should like awfully to send you a copy.”